


Truly, Madly, Deeply (the Alan Rickman remix)

by Flywoman



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 10:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4176789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flywoman/pseuds/Flywoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only truly surprising thing was that it had taken John so long to go mad. An alternative post-“Reichenbach Fall” Sherlock/John reunion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fleetwood_mouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleetwood_mouse/gifts).
  * Inspired by [How John Coped](https://archiveofourown.org/works/556750) by [fleetwood_mouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleetwood_mouse/pseuds/fleetwood_mouse). 



> Disclaimer: These characters were created by Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. Thanks for letting me play with them!
> 
> Author’s Notes: Thanks to the lovely and talented jezziejay for beta and Britpicking. This is a remix of “How John Coped” by fleetwood_mouse, written for Remix Redux 12: The Dirty Dozen. It is also my first Sherlock BBC fic. Any feedback, including constructive criticism, would be greatly appreciated!

The only truly surprising thing was that it had taken John so long to go mad.

Or perhaps not so surprising. After all, his psychosomatic limp hadn’t appeared immediately, had it, not until he’d stepped off the plane in London, his knee suddenly buckling under the pain that ghosted through his thigh.

So maybe there should have been no reason to expect Sherlock to breeze back into the flat the very same evening that John had watched him plunge, greatcoat billowing, had seen his bloody jellied brains spattered over the sidewalk in front of Barts.

Or the next day.

Or the day after that.

Instead of which, _this_ : his sudden reappearance after one year, ten months, and thirteen days, Sherlock strolling back into 221B with an obvious attempt at nonchalance belied by the way he watched keenly for John’s reaction over the edge of his upturned collar.

 _It’s finally happened,_ John thought. He had allowed himself to imagine this moment so vividly, so frequently (especially at first), that this occasion was almost offensive in its… ordinariness. Never mind that this time he could hear the faint flap of Sherlock’s coat, could actually _smell_ him, a whiff of fresh cigarette smoke and sun-warmed wool and a sour, unexpected note of anxiety. Hallucinations came in multiple sensory modalities all the time, didn’t they? He had known this professionally, as a doctor, and now he would know it personally, first-hand and with far greater immediacy, but it was. Not. Surprising.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock uttered now in that achingly familiar, deep, throaty voice that had haunted his darkest days, taunting him with false promises of fresh crime scenes and companionship. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and spread his long, elegant fingers in a gesture disturbingly similar to supplication, the smooth ivory slightly stained with nicotine. “As you can see, I’m not-“

“Right,” John interrupted, fighting the urge to break into a demented giggle. “Not dead. Course not. Cup of tea?”

Sherlock stared. “Not just now, John. I must say, I expected… a _different_ reaction, exactly what I couldn’t predict, which is one of the things I find most fascinating about you, but I suppose that we are Englishmen after all, and being both a doctor and a soldier, you in particular must have learned to take such things in stride-”

“Jesus, you’re exactly as I’ve imagined you,” and this time John did smile, not sure whether he felt more appalled or relieved.

Sherlock cut himself off with visible effort. “Not… good?” he asked, uncharacteristically hesitant.

“Bit not good, yeah,” John confessed to what he knew rationally to be the empty air, and made for the front door, thinking that perhaps a day at the clinic, followed by his regular appointment with his therapist, would help him to put this novel manifestation of his grief into perspective.

***

John did not mention Sherlock’s return to his therapist that afternoon.

Or during the dozen-odd appointments after that one.

***

For the first time in ages, John slept without dreams of sand and of stars that were far too close and clear. No hoarse shouts, no gunfire, no snatches of Pashto or groans of wounded men.

Instead, he dreamt of dummies on strings; of Sherlock and Moriarty, heads bent close together like mischievous schoolboys; of a greatcoat billowing around a corpse as it plunged; of a dozen different explanations that could plausibly account for his friend, alive and well and vaguely apologetic, in their flat.

Yet even asleep, he knew these fantasies for what they were, and woke weeping.

***

For the first few days, things were very quiet. John thought it best to ignore Sherlock as much as possible; he certainly didn’t want to humour his own hallucination by initiating conversation. As it happened, Mrs. Hudson was out of town visiting her sister the day that Sherlock reappeared. He was glad of this; he didn’t trust himself to pretend quite so soon that he was muddling along as usual.

Despite his best efforts, though, the morning after Sherlock’s return, John caught himself making toast for two; the plate shattered spectacularly as it hit the floor. And that evening, when Sherlock began flinging himself around dramatically and rearranging the furniture as John was trying to watch telly, he shouted at him. It. John felt a bit ill after that and went to bed early. Even with the pillow over his head, he could still hear the muffled sounds from the sitting room.

When he came downstairs the next morning, he stopped dead. Their armchairs once again faced each other as if in preparation for a companionable chat. The table was set for two, a steaming cup of tea beside John’s seat. Sherlock waited in the kitchen, a bowl in one hand and an egg in the other. “John,” he said, looking relieved. “Two minutes thirty-eight seconds later than expected, but the tea is still hot. Now, would you like your eggs scrambled, or-“

Without a word, John set to and dragged the armchairs back into place, then brushed past Sherlock to the door. He would head straight to the clinic today. Perhaps if he kept up with his morning schedule, he could leave a little early for luncheon.

On his way, it occurred to him to wonder, briefly, why this hallucinatory Sherlock seemed to be so much less of a prick than the original one. Perhaps that was what we all did, idealize the dead. Only for the two years prior, he hadn’t, not really. He’d remembered Sherlock’s gobsmacking brilliance, his infectious laugh, his courage and loyalty, his physical grace. He’d also remembered his utter tactlessness, his impatience with the bodily needs of mere mortals, his patently destructive behaviour when bored.

John supposed that he was imagining an appropriately repentant Sherlock, the greatest fantasy of all, and left it at that.

***

On the third day, Sherlock invited John to join him on a case.

He’d been following various news bulletins on his phone all morning with great avidity, and when Lestrade’s ringtone sounded, John didn’t miss the delight that flashed in Sherlock’s eyes before he schooled his features into a neutral expression and answered it. “Yes? Yes. I suppose so, if your dull-witted minions can’t seem to… Hmmph. The address?” A pause. “Of course.”

Sherlock turned back to John, his expression nearly that of a lanky hound inviting his beloved companion for a walk. “That was Gary.”

“Who?” John asked before he could stop himself.

An impatient wave of the pale hand. “Detective Lestrade.” John didn’t bother to correct him. “We have a case, John,” and Sherlock allowed himself a gleeful smile as he steepled his long fingers. “One of not inconsiderable interest.”

“Lestrade, sure,” John said, chuckling painfully. “A case, yeah.” He folded himself more firmly into his armchair and picked up the newspaper, using it to shield himself from the sight of Sherlock’s eager face.

“Is your leg-“

‘Damn my leg,” John retorted, but only under his breath.

After a few long, intensely awkward seconds, a slight breeze ruffled the pages of his paper, and not too much after that, the front door quietly clicked shut.

***

Over time, things went back almost to the way they had been before Sherlock had… _died_ , the rational part of John’s mind said, but _disappeared_ , another part whispered insidiously. John got up, made breakfast for himself (or, occasionally, for both of them, in which case he binned Sherlock’s share afterwards). He went to the clinic, came home, ate takeout in front of the telly, and went to bed. Sherlock slept late, then rose to hunch over his microscope, analysing fibres and ash and occasionally fragments of human flesh, but he often disappeared to Barts or went out on a case for most of the day. No heads appeared in the fridge, no ornamental bullet holes in Mrs. Hudson’s velvet-flocked wallpaper.

There was no music. Sherlock had picked up his violin occasionally at first, but the sweet, familiar sounds had caused John to go rigid all over and clench his jaw with the effort of holding back tears. Sherlock, who as always missed nothing, had faltered mid-measure and put the instrument away. After only a few abortive attempts, the violin had stayed in its case, gathering a thin rime of dust.

And there were no more evenings at the pub with Mike or Greg, no half-hearted dates with the women whose numbers had ended up in his pockets afterwards. John was quietly terrified that somehow, perhaps just by looking at him, at the bags under his eyes and the way he winced with the sudden ache that could squeeze the air out of him at unexpected moments, they would be able to tell. And then where would he be? Out of a job, perhaps out of a license, and certainly out of 221B.

So John returned any calls late – not so late as to cause alarm, just late enough to make his lack of interest clear – and put people off with vague excuses when pressed. Mike took the hint quickly and, John suspected, with some relief. Greg was more difficult to shake and pursued John doggedly for some time; John felt bad about this, knowing that he was one of the few who had shared John’s admiration for Sherlock in action and who had been sincerely concerned for his well-being, before… but he simply couldn’t take the risk.

***

One evening John came home from the clinic to find he’d left his laptop open again, a fairly frequent occurrence. Not so usual was the Excel spreadsheet that had popped up instead of the tax forms he’d been filling out the night before. _Minutes since severed… rigidity… accessibility of prints…_ John drew back in horror. When had he had time to create these, these concrete accoutrements to his ridiculous fantasy life? Was there any missing time for which he could not account?

“No," John heard himself babbling as he banged the laptop shut. "No. I didn't, I can't, I'm..." On the verge of panic, he drew his feet up into the armchair and breathed as deeply and slowly as possible, eyes squeezed shut. Mind over matter, yeah? Perhaps he should try consciously banishing Sherlock and all evidence of his presence.

_One… Sherlock is dead… two… Sherlock is dead… three… Sherlock is dead… four… Sherlock is dead… five… Sherlock is dead… Six… so why can I hear him clearing his throat in the armchair opposite?_

This would never work. John bolted for his bedroom.

Once there, he reasoned that a change of scenery might do him a great deal of good. So far, he had never seen Sherlock anywhere outside of 221B. Perhaps his hallucinations were tied to “their” space, a sort of misfiring mental association being made by his beleaguered mind. Perhaps he could move out for the weekend – it was Friday evening after all – and clear his head.

***

The best thing about Harry was that she didn’t ask too many questions, at least when sober. She hugged him for a few seconds longer than usual, wrapping him warmly in her wiry arms; took his duffel bag from his unresisting fingers and made up a bed for him on the sofa, with the single pillow he preferred; and brought him a cup of tea, strong and hot. As he sipped, she sat down next to him and tilted her head against his, not speaking.

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her everything, not so much out of gratitude or camaraderie as because not speaking of it to anyone, all the while certain that he was giving away his guilty secret with every shifty glance, was slowly killing him. _Listen, Harry_ , he could say. _Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve started seeing Sherlock again. Hearing voices? Yes, of course. No, no one is telling me to hurt myself, or anyone else. Well, he has invited me to a couple of crime scenes, but after the first few times, I stopped hallucinating that bit._ He brushed at his eyes as his vision blurred unexpectedly, and Harry squeezed his biceps.

“John,” she said softly, “you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. You know that, right?”

He nodded tightly, not trusting himself to speak.

“I’d thought… you seemed better, before. But maybe it’s not so good for you to be alone.”

“’m not alone,” John managed with a wry half-smile. He patted her hand, the same false assurance he gave just before referring a patient with particularly ominous symptoms to a specialist.

“Your housekeeper doesn’t count,” she said with some asperity, and suddenly John had to fight the half-hysterical urge to laugh.

“She’s not my housekeeper, she’s my landlady, and please, Harry, just… leave it, yeah?”

“Yeah, fine,” Harry huffed, but her tone was more sad than angry. She stood up. “I’ll give you a bit of breathing space, will I?”

“Ta,” John said softly to her back, then drained his cup.

***

On Sunday evening, John went back to Baker Street.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love Harry; of course he did, he always had, she was his sister. He simply didn’t like her very much. Even now, with none of the usual problems attendant – because she’d been trying, she really had, and there had been no drinking, no whinging, no nagging about anti-depressants, no rows with her current partner – even so, her simple presence, the very cadence of her breathing, irritated him more than the company of perhaps the most singular and insufferable sod ever to haunt the halls of the New Scotland Yard.

The irony of this was not lost on John, but there it was.

Sitting on the tube, back straight, fists clenched in his coat, John wondered which would be worse: to find that Sherlock was gone and he was cured, or to discover the flat exactly as he had left it, with Sherlock sitting slit-eyed in his armchair and a knife transfixing fresh correspondence on the mantelpiece next to the skull.

As John limped down Baker street towards their flat, he was greeted by the faint strains of very familiar violin music, a poignant piece that he himself couldn’t attribute to any composer in particular but which had always reminded him of Sherlock in its piercing solitude and restrained intensity. John forced himself to unlock the street door, hang up his coat, and trudge steadily up the stairs.

When he opened the door of the flat, the music faltered almost imperceptibly but then soared on, the sweet seduction of madness itself. John blinked against sudden tears and bit his lower lip to stifle an unmanly sob (never mind that there was nobody here to witness his weakness). Nodded curtly to the non-existent man behind the curtain and stumbled up to his room.

***

That night, lying alone in bed, John had a revelation.

He did not actually _want_ to be cured.

No matter how many times he told himself otherwise, he was not-so-secretly glad to come home to Sherlock every day. If madness were the price to have his friend back in Baker Street again, then John would pay it.

Pay it, hell. He would embrace it.

The next morning John made tea and toast, deliberately, for both of them. He was simultaneously disappointed and relieved to see that Sherlock’s portion remained untouched on the table when he returned from his shift at the clinic. He poured out the tepid tea and binned the bread, feeling only a slight twinge of remorse. Then he picked at his Chinese takeout, set aside the dumplings that Sherlock liked so much and stashed them in the fridge, and watched _Toddlers and Tiaras_ for a couple of hours before going to bed.

***

John had a few days of leave coming to him after filling in for Joe Bell, whose daughter Vanessa’s appendix had ruptured, and he would spend it, uninterrupted, where he wished, in the company of Sherlock. He ordered in sufficient food and turned his phone off, almost disconnected the wireless as well but thought better of it. He told Mrs. Hudson that he was not, under any circumstances, to be disturbed.

So far, things had been calm – cosy and familiar, much like the old days in 221B. John spent most of the third morning doing the crossword. He could hear Sherlock puttering about in the kitchen, processing slides and slotting them into place at his microscope, making that low, self-satisfied hum like a cat who’d got the cream. Sherlock always acted happiest when John stayed in, even when they spent most of their time in separate rooms, even if they barely acknowledged each other.

Just past eleven, John stretched and massaged the back of his neck, then set the half-finished crossword aside and padded into the kitchen to refresh his tea. There was his own private Sherlock, perched at the microscope like a magnificent bird of prey, intent on the tiny slivers of god knows what (and it briefly occurred to John to wonder why his subconscious hadn’t bothered to supply him with such details).

John closed the cupboard, set a package of biscuits on the table, and regarded Sherlock for a moment.

"I suppose that's just what you do, isn't it?" he said. "Even now." His voice sounded hoarse, rusty and unused after two days without human contact, despite the sip of tea he’d just taken.

"Yes," responded Sherlock, adjusting the viewfinder.

John studied Sherlock closely. He seemed… thinner even than John remembered, and so pale that he was almost translucent. "It wouldn't make sense for you to do anything else, would it?"

"Hardly," Sherlock replied, not looking up from his specimen. His tone implied impatience and some distaste.

"Right," said John. He looked away and sipped his tea. "Right."

For the first time since Sherlock’s initial appearance, John had initiated a conversation, an actual honest-to-God exchange, however trite – and despite being completely delusional, he could still recognize that this stepped things up to the next level. It was only a matter of time now before he forgot that the man he was talking to didn’t actually exist, before a third party caught them at it and John was taken away to a place with soft walls and plastic knives.

He was still musing on this inevitability when their comfortable silence was shattered by a peremptory knock at the door.

John set down teacup and saucer and grabbed his cane, but he had only gotten to the entryway when the door swung open of its own accord.

Mycroft Holmes stood there, immaculately dressed and magisterially upright. John steeled himself to deal with this unexpected intrusion.

"Hello, Mycroft," he said in a low voice, hoping that the other man would hear the warning in it. "What is it today?"

"John." Mycroft nodded a curt acknowledgment and swiftly crossed the room to sit at the kitchen table opposite Sherlock, who continued to peer into his oculars.

"Would you like some tea, then?" offered John, the sarcasm evident to anyone but a Holmes. Mycroft politely declined and leaned back in his chair, still staring at the spot where John could see his younger brother sitting, clear as day. It was almost as if… but no. Of course not. That was impossible.

 _Or at the very least,_ Sherlock’s voice rebuked, not from the stiff figure at the kitchen table but from inside John’s fragile skull, _highly improbable._

_And when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

He was still staring uncertainly at the scene before him, his gaze shifting from one brother to the other, from the memory to the flesh, when Mycroft broke the silence. "If I didn't know better, I'd be concerned." His comment was clearly directed towards the spot where Sherlock sat, deliberately ignoring him. John felt a sudden flush, perspiration beginning to bead on his brow, and clutched convulsively at his cane as his hands started to shake. "It's unusual for you to ignore my messages for so long."

"I'm sorry, what messages?" John asked, his tremulous voice overlapping with Sherlock's simultaneous retort, "Why should I respond to something so deathly  _boring_?"

Mycroft slammed his palms down on the kitchen table and thrust his head forward. "This is a matter of national importance," he hissed, "and you know that very well. I cannot see how your…  _experiments,_ " and Mycroft spit this word out contemptuously, "could possibly keep you –"

There was a loud thud and a near-simultaneous dull burst of pain in John’s lower back, both of which, he shortly discovered, were due to the fact that his knees had collapsed under him, causing him to collide ungracefully with the refrigerator. Dimly he heard Sherlock call his name, but right now he only had eyes for Mycroft, who quite clearly was carrying on a conversation with a dead man.

_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable…_

“You…” John couldn’t catch his breath, was afraid for a moment that he was actually going to faint. Up till now, his hallucinations of Sherlock had been self-contained; he had imagined no interactions except here, at home, with John himself. That they were now spiraling outward to include other individuals of their acquaintance could only mean that his condition had progressed to full-blown psychosis. Either that, or… or…

_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains…_

He closed his mouth, swallowed, and parted his lips to try again, imparting the same authority to his voice that he would have used with one of his men. "Who... are you talking to... Mycroft."

Mycroft didn't seem sure of the proper response. His eyes darted to Sherlock – he parted his lips and blinked – and then quickly back to John.

_When you have eliminated the impossible…_

John crumpled to the floor.

His heart was pounding in his ears, his vision dark, and he felt as though he might be about to vomit. He pulled up his knees and thrust his head between them, sternly ordering himself to breathe. Almost immediately, a presence he knew to be Sherlock appeared by his side, solid and warm but not quite in contact.

John gasped and shuddered, and the spots swimming before his eyes receded a little.

“John," Sherlock ventured, sounding as remorseful as John had ever heard him. He drew in a ragged breath and let it out, willing himself fiercely not to burst into sobs.

Then, gently and carefully, Sherlock touched John's shoulder, avoiding the sensitive tissue surrounding his scar.

It occurred to John that he wanted desperately to grasp that hand with his own and hold onto it for dear life like a drowning man. He wanted to turn it palm-up and trace their intertwined destinies in the fine creases. He wanted to hold it against his hot cheek so that Sherlock could lick it later, delicately, and taste John’s tears. He wanted to grip it with all of the strength he could summon and crush Sherlock’s bones to powder.

Of course, he did none of these things.

John drew in another quivering breath and spoke, voice surprisingly even. "Just to be clear..." he began, and stopped himself there, unable for the moment to continue without tears, or possibly hysterics. _Just to be clear, you let me believe for two years, almost two bloody years, you bastards, that the man who stopped me from swallowing my gun when I got back from Afghanistan had given his life for mine._

"John, I am so sorry," a voice whispered, but this was Mycroft, his usual arrogance softened by what sounded like sincere shame. "If I had known..."

John couldn’t make himself raise his head, but he dismissed the apology by waving his hand. "No… it's… it'll be all right. I'll be…"

"I'll leave you two, then," Mycroft offered, the coward, and the footsteps of a habitually much heavier man made their way hastily to the door.

One more breath. Another. Any second now, he would be able to look up, to catch Sherlock’s – the actual Sherlock’s – eye, to allow his friend to witness the full force of his fury… and of his forgiveness.

Suddenly Sherlock withdrew the warmth of his hand from John’s shoulder. John heard him suck in one deep, harsh breath, then another. A violent, almost convulsive movement and a crash were swiftly followed by the clatter of uneven footsteps and the slam of the front door.

 


	2. Chapter 2

John lifted his head at last, swiped at his eyes, and looked around the flat. In a matter of seconds, the myriad subtle and not-so-subtle signs of Sherlock’s recent presence had been transformed. Instead of filling him with dread and despair, they offered him a dizzying mixture of joy, relief, and above all, rage.

He wasn’t mental. Sherlock was alive. And, perhaps the most incredible of all, Sherlock was sorry. All right, so he hadn’t said as much, exactly, but John had heard it in the way in which he’d spoken his name, had felt it unmistakably in the pressure of his fingers.

Sorry because of what he’d done to John in his unthinking arrogance, with his magnificent magic trick? Or sorry because he’d so utterly failed to interpret John’s reaction to his reappearance?

For one brief, mad moment, John considered tearing out of the flat on Sherlock’s heels, but he knew instinctively that this would be a mistake. John had just been returned to Sherlock in as shocking a manner as Sherlock had reappeared to John, and more than that, Sherlock now knew himself to be responsible for John’s suffering, not only the anticipated grief and loneliness after his “death,” but months of mental anguish and self-imposed isolation. He would need time to himself, to stalk the streets of London, to berate himself, to brood. In the meantime, John would be right here, awaiting his return.

And, angry as he was, what could John do to welcome Sherlock back to Baker Street? He looked around again and decided to straighten up the flat. He restored Sherlock’s vintage microscope to its customary place on the kitchen table (luckily, it didn’t seem to have suffered any obvious structural damage). Dusted off Sherlock’s violin case and placed a well-thumbed sheet of music on the stand. Did the dishes and set out teacups for two in case Sherlock returned sooner than anticipated. Rearranged the furniture so that the armchairs faced each other companionably again.

Just as he was finishing up, the intercom buzzed. A few seconds later, he heard unfamiliar footsteps tromping up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson’s lighter, less even tread right behind.

“Oh, John,” she cried apologetically as the door swung open, “I told him that you weren’t receiving visitors today, but he simply wouldn’t wait-“

“It’s all right,” John said, even as he directed a cool, assessing gaze at the stranger. A thirty-odd-year-old man of average height: clean-shaven, nondescript features, light brown eyes and hair, crisply pressed but drab suit. A Government man. John’s suspicions were confirmed when the younger man handed him a manila envelope.

“Mr. Holmes, I presume?” John inquired archly. The young man neither confirmed nor denied but turned smartly and saw himself to the door, brushing past Mrs. Hudson, who wrung her hands and looked at John.

“Twice in one morning, and you all worn out with work,” she fretted. “Now, John, dear, just make yourself comfortable, and I’ll bring you a nice pot of tea.”

“Got any buns?” John asked, realizing that it was past noon and that his stomach, though still tense, was starting to rumble.

“I do,” and she looked positively delighted to be able to fulfil this small request. “Fresh from this morning.”

John settled himself in his armchair, rubbing fitfully at the phantom pain in his leg, and forced down the tea and bun that Mrs. Hudson brought him, beaming, before picking up the envelope (thick, heavy, sealed, with a faint smudge on the flap). There was a typewritten note affixed: “Dr. Watson: I had intended this envelope to be opened only in the event of my death. However, given my brother’s recent return, your obvious misinterpretation of the data, and the extreme unlikelihood of a satisfactory explanation being offered by other interested parties, I thought it best to share the contents with you now. – MH.”

He tore open the flap, pulled out the sheaf of papers, and scanned the first page. It became more and more difficult for him to grasp the details as his anger grew, but the gist was clear: Mycroft had known all along, had conspired with his brother in order to fake Sherlock’s death. The operation had been a complex and carefully orchestrated one, involving street closures, an inflatable mattress, a crowd of extras, and a fresh corpse supplied by Molly Hooper.

Mycroft had taken great care to emphasize that this grand deception had been undertaken specifically to ensure the survival of Sherlock’s family and few friends - John himself, above all. While doubtless true, this explanation only fuelled his rage. _How could Sherlock have thought-_ and suddenly John dropped his head into his hands, overcome by the thought that threatened to complete itself. _How could Sherlock have thought that John’s life could go on without him._

That was the moment when he first acknowledged the great and inconvenient truth: that what he had experienced was not the normal grief of a man suddenly deprived of his flatmate and friend. That he had loved Sherlock – truly, madly, deeply – and that this was why, in the absence of his radiance, John’s life had been as dull and cold as the surface of the moon.

John had never been a great one for introspection, so he did not proceed to delve into the depths of his own psyche to inquire as to previous hints of his latent homosexuality, etc. Instead, he focused on the practical: Was he attracted to Sherlock? Did he find Sherlock physically beautiful, did he welcome his touch, did the thought of embracing, kissing, even fucking Sherlock excite him? And the answers came to him quickly: Yes. God, yes.

And Sherlock? How would a man who regarded the body as nothing more than transport for that inimitable mind react to any such overtures? _Incomprehension,_ John surmised bleakly. _Horror._ _Disgust._

And now that John knew, surely Sherlock would know. Worse still, perhaps he had always known – perhaps he had been only too right to tell John that first evening that he was married to his work, in response to what he himself had thought an innocent question. Perhaps this even explained why Mrs. Hudson had never quite given up hope.

Alone in the flat, John groaned aloud.

***

The afternoon alternately dragged and flew forward as John worried over his newfound realizations, trying to settle on the most appropriate course of action, but there was no sign of Sherlock.

He was tempted to call Greg and ask if he’d fancy dinner out at the local, but he didn’t dare leave the flat until Sherlock returned. But perhaps he could order in, and Greg could bring some beer, and Sherlock would return to find them both laughing over some shared joke. He found his mobile behind a seat cushion and turned it on. Greg, unfortunately, was working that evening, but he sounded sincerely happy to hear from John and promised to pop round for a drink at the end of the week.

It was just as well, John supposed; he was so tense that the mere thought of food turned his stomach. And if Sherlock came home to an empty refrigerator, well, it was the least that he deserved.

He tried to watch telly but couldn’t concentrate. He flipped idly through some of the newspaper clippings and screenshots that Mycroft had included in the file: the discovery of a new population of a highly endangered species of frog in the far reaches of Tibet by a Norwegian explorer named Sigerson, the sudden resolution of a diplomatic crisis with Iran by an unnamed intermediary, the successful synthesis of a remarkably efficacious novel antibiotic by a laboratory in Montpellier… But the idea of Sherlock abandoning him in his desolation to showcase his brilliance on some kind of grand world tour only made John angrier.

In the end, John gave up his vigil and went to bed. He did not sleep at once but rather dozed fitfully at first, starting awake at any small sound from the street that might herald Sherlock’s arrival.

The next thing he knew, Sherlock was standing by his bedside.

Disoriented and groggy as he was from being summoned out of deep sleep, John knew that the tall, slim silhouette could belong to no one else. He could smell Sherlock’s skin, familiar but more intense and… _damp_ , John surmised, as if he’d been caught out in the rain. He was trembling slightly as he stood there, staring down at John, thin fingers flashing spasmodically in the moonlight. He jumped as John’s sleep-roughened voice croaked, “Sherlock. You startled me.”

John heard Sherlock swallow. “That was not my intention.”

"It's all right," John answered, breathing out softly, understanding the apology behind Sherlock's words. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, not wanting to frighten Sherlock in his current vulnerable state, to do anything that would shatter this fragile moment. John stifled a yawn. He felt more exhausted than he had before going to bed and could only hope that he wasn’t about to do or say anything terribly stupid. But he needed to know for certain.

"Do you think..." John rubbed his temple and squinted down at the duvet, suddenly wondering whether he dared do what he most wanted. He gave a resigned sigh and began again. "Sherlock," he said, raising his eyes. "Could you come here for a moment?"

Sherlock stepped tentatively closer, and when John nodded his encouragement, he slid gracefully onto the mattress, crossing his long legs neatly beneath him like a great cat.

Already rapid, John’s heart rate accelerated; he felt excited and curious and terrified all at once. He steeled himself, taking a deep breath. "Give me your hand," he said, enunciating his words with careful precision. Sherlock didn't move. "Your hand, Sherlock," John repeated. “And I don’t want to hear about this in the morning, so please keep your mouth shut."

Silently, Sherlock extended his arm toward John as if to shake hands, clearly without a clue as to his friend’s intentions. When John took Sherlock's wrist gently in his hand, turned it palm up, and found his pulse, Sherlock dropped his head and let out a ragged, pained breath. Like a dubious disciple, John kept his fingers on Sherlock’s flesh, warm and human and alive beneath his cool, moist skin. He heard himself panting harshly, torn between relief and rage.

Now Sherlock raised his head again to lock eyes with John, obviously determined to give his friend whatever confirmation or reassurance he required that he was, in fact, returned, and regretful, and in desperate need of John’s forgiveness.

John let Sherlock's arm drop back into his lap, pulled the covers aside, and sat up on his knees. Still breathing heavily, he leaned in to press two fingers to the pulse point at Sherlock's throat. At any other time, he knew, Sherlock might well have lashed out at John in scorn, or twisted away with an almost imperceptible shudder of distaste. Instead, he was willing himself to sit perfectly still as John followed the flow of his blood, the beat of his heart, and felt himself slowly growing calm and even a little sleepy.

At the same time, he could sense Sherlock’s pulse accelerating, probably as he approached full-blown panic at this unprecedented intimacy between them. John took pity on him and started to pull away.

Sherlock’s cold hand shot out, gripped John’s, and pressed his palm to his chest, just over his heart.

John gasped with surprise and gratitude at the enormity of this gesture. He could feel Sherlock’s heart beating wildly under his hand like a frantic wren against a windowpane. A queer, sudden ache in his own chest caused him to close his eyes and crumple in upon himself, and he felt hot, shameful tears welling, about to trickle down his cheeks.

And then, even more astonishing, he felt Sherlock’s fingers release his hand and begin running up and down his arms, sliding up to his shoulders and back down to his wrists, final proof that he was here, alive and corporeal and _real_.

John's hand fisted in Sherlock’s shirt, and it was soon crushed between their chests as Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and drew him close. John could feel his cool, thin fingers playing lightly on the ridges of his vertebrae, then pressing more firmly against his flesh, Sherlock’s body shuddering against his with every ragged breath.

It suddenly occurred to him that Sherlock was crying. _Real_ crying, not the crocodile tears he produced on cue while pursuing a case. Sherlock was crying, and it was all for John.

Without fully thinking things through, he released Sherlock’s shirt and reached for his pale face, gently wiping away the tracks of his tears. And then, when that didn’t seem sufficient to the occasion, John leaned forward and clasped his jaw and kissed the wet patches away, salt and skin and _Sherlock_ under his lips.

Sherlock exhaled sharply, roughly, and he swayed in place but didn’t reject John’s benediction.

And as they clasped each other unsteadily in the darkest hour before the dawn, nothing seemed more natural than to kiss Sherlock on the lips.

He’d meant it to be brief, a tender brush, a kiss of pardon like those he’d exchanged at the end of far too many relationships. He wasn’t prepared for Sherlock’s moan in his mouth, the way Sherlock pressed insistently forward, seeking more, cool hands still caressing the contours of John’s body. Which meant that it wasn’t just _a kiss, they were kissing, and_

John pulled back suddenly, and Sherlock followed in pursuit, almost knocking him flat, but with the last of his ebbing strength, he caught Sherlock and held the both of them upright. Sherlock made a small, anguished sound and shivered, hunching in upon himself.

"It’s all right, Sherlock," John ran a firm, calming hand up Sherlock's back and across the width of his shoulders, then leaned forward over the bent head and kissed the damp curls: once, twice. “It’s all right,” John repeated, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s crown, breathing into his hair, waiting for Sherlock’s shaking to ease.

He lay back slowly, taking Sherlock with him, their bodies fitting together as easily as if they had been sharing a bed for years. He could feel the younger man’s warm, uneven breaths against the hollow of his throat. He traced soothing circles on Sherlock’s back, smoothing the silk of his shirt with the palm of his hand, in a losing battle to keep his own eyes propped open. For the first time in approximately forever, John was unafraid of what dreams might come.

 _“John,”_ Sherlock’s voice rumbled softly but urgently against his collarbone, and John jolted awake again.

He heard Sherlock take a breath, sucking the air sharply past his teeth. “It is imperative that you forgive me.” Their temporary truce ruined, John went rigid and silent, waiting for the rage that he knew Sherlock’s next words would bring. “I know that it was horrible and that I was wrong, but you have to understand that it was because I didn’t see, John, I didn’t understand, because I have a blind spot when it comes to you and it stops my mind from working right... You are a great conductor of light, and you are so much a part of my vision that sometimes I can’t see you as a separate being. But John, if I had known –”

Sherlock drew himself up to rest upon his elbows and regard John, and the abrupt loss of contact was almost physically painful. “I did not do this to you intentionally,” he babbled on. “I... I couldn’t foresee this because I failed to understand how a simple human being such as yourself would interpret the data at hand. And I can’t imagine how you must have felt, but I need you to forgive me because the current situation is unbearable. I should have realized, but I didn’t try to understand what was happening because I was finally here with you again and that was all that mattered. I would be lost without you, John, I truly would, and you must forgive me. _I did this to save your life_ ,” he finished, as if that purpose had the power to justify everything that had followed.

John inhaled deeply and forced himself to look at the ceiling, mentally counting to ten. If there had been the slightest hint of smugness in Sherlock’s voice during that monologue, the faintest glimmer of self-congratulation for his own cleverness in his eyes, John would have punched him in the face.

He still might.

“I knew that bit, actually,” he acknowledged at last, as softly and evenly as he could. “Mycroft sent someone over with some documents. Seems they were to be given to me in the event of his death, but he thought I’d better read them now because you’d never manage to get that out right.”

He shifted slightly, still not daring to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “But you didn’t tell me,” he whispered, hoping that Sherlock would hear the love beneath the bewilderment and wrath at his betrayal. “You didn’t tell me a thing.”

“I thought you knew,” Sherlock responded, reproachful. “That you had figured it out.”

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes, fighting down fury. “Well, I hadn’t, obviously. I’m an idiot; remember?” And he was, for so many reasons.

“You are,” Sherlock said hoarsely, “the only person who matters. The only one _ever_. I have never asked anyone for something like this before – not because there was no need, but because I didn’t care.” John did not doubt that this was true, at least of the experiences that Sherlock had not intentionally deleted. “And I’m just going to keep asking until you give in and forgive me… or until you really do give up and leave me for good.” Sherlock paused, took a breath, and then offered a last, whispered plea: “Please.”

John lay silent in the darkness, hands folded across his chest, staring up at the ceiling.

"What makes you think I'm saying no?" he murmured, and he felt Sherlock still.

John rolled over on his side to face Sherlock, his eyes again welling with traitorous tears. "You don't understand a thing, do you?" he whispered. "You honestly think that I can choose whether or not to be here – no, of course you do, you've chosen not to, so you think that I can do, too."

"John," Sherlock began brokenly, and stopped.

John shook his head, resigned. "You're being daft. You can't have missed this unless you tried – oh my God,” he added in horror as sudden realization struck, “is this what you feel like _all_ the time? As if people are unbelievably obtuse?"

Sherlock stayed silent, eyes wide, then blinked several times, deliberately and rapidly.

John sighed and started again. "Yes, I’m angry with you," he said, and his voice rose against his will. "Incredibly angry, you are right about that. You might have thought you were faking your death for the right reasons, but you were unbelievably self-centered and callous, even for you, Sherlock. You can't have thought that I could watch you..." (John screwed up his eyes and drew a deep breath) " _leave me like that_ and walk away. There is no one in the _world_ who could misunderstand the situation that badly."

"I was trying to protect you," Sherlock protested, still with far too much self-righteousness that needed to be knocked out of him.

"I know that," replied John coldly. "You had it all figured out, you and Mycroft had a terribly clever plan, and you got to play the big, tragic hero. But you can't possibly have thought..." He swallowed. "Sherlock, you had to have known that without you, my life was not worth saving."     

Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock. Savagely, John pushed on. "What did you think I was going to do? What did you think I had left? Sherlock, while you were _gone_ ," John felt himself bare his teeth in a feral grin, "you can't call what I did during those years _living_.

“Do you know..." John briefly reconsidered what he was about to say, then decided that there was no point in holding anything back now. "Do you have any idea why I didn't go to anyone? Hallucinations aren’t exactly unheard of in PTSD patients, Sherlock, you know that. There was my therapist, there are specialists. I could have gotten medication to make me normal again – Harry was pushing me to do it for depression anyway – but I wouldn't because–" John took a breath and gritted his teeth. “Because I didn’t want to stop seeing you. I _needed_ you." He laughed harshly and without mirth. "I was so fucked up that I preferred to be mad, because at least then you would still be there, Sherlock.” He bent his head briefly. “You would still be there.”

He had been sure that Sherlock would interrupt him at that point, but he didn’t. "I canceled plans with people – you know, real _living_ people – to sit at home and eat takeaway and watch crap telly with your goddamned ghost. And I _saw_ myself doing it. I understood exactly what I was doing and I was terrified because... because how long can something like that go on? There was really only one way it could end. But I kept it up anyway, I chose that path knowing that ultimately it would lead me off a cliff, but that was my only option because at least _you were there_."

Sherlock actually looked ill now, his eyes glassy, his thin body swaying helplessly from side to side. John reached up and clasped his dear, thick head, his hands gentle, steadying.

"And you think that I'm going to disappear now that I know you're alive?” He kept his tone soft, as if chiding a small child. “Of course I'm angry with you, Sherlock, _furious_ , and that's not just going to go away overnight. It's going to take some time, and you need to know that I'm going to get angry, and scream at you, and probably walk out, but I'm always going to come back. Having you here again is..." John searched fruitlessly for another, better word, but couldn't find anything more fitting: "It's a bloody miracle. I know it sounds ridiculous, but to me, that’s what it is. For you to be alive?" He swallowed hard past the sudden lump in his throat. "Nothing in my life is ever going to matter more than that. _Ever_."

Sherlock's hands rose in panic to his face as his eyes welled with tears, and John as quickly released him and lay back, giving him silent permission to go.

Sherlock hesitated for a few seconds, trembling. Then he lay back down, body tense but at least temporarily obedient, fitting himself against John’s belly and breast. He rested his head in the hollow between John’s neck and shoulder and watched him warily, unblinking.

"I'm going to go back to sleep now," John told him in a low voice, slowly turning his head so that he could meet Sherlock’s gaze. "I'll be right here. You can wake me up if you need me." He could see a snarky comment composing itself behind Sherlock’s bright eyes, but in the end, his friend only nodded.

"It's fine if you need to go somewhere and think," John continued, strongly inclined to be generous now that he had burdened Sherlock with his own raw emotions so relentlessly. "Although...” he didn’t want to leave Sherlock in any doubt of his forgiveness. “It would make me happy if you stayed here."

Sherlock stared back at John, still looking shell-shocked. John smiled reassuringly at him. “Goodnight," he whispered, and closed his eyes.

***

Sherlock was still there when John woke up.

He was terribly disoriented at first to find another body in his bed. His recollection of the night’s events returned within a few seconds, but they remained somewhat foggy and more than a little difficult to take at face value: surely he had only dreamed that Sherlock had come to his bed, that they had-

But no, there was Sherlock, lying on his side with his back to John, sheet slipping down over the sharp point of his hip. Sometime during the night he must have shed the rest of his damp clothes; he was now completely and unselfconsciously naked, unruly black curls a startling contrast to the smooth skin like fine white porcelain gleaming over his bones.

“Jesus,” John breathed, taken aback by his unexpectedly strong physical reaction to the sight, but fortunately Sherlock didn’t stir, not even when John eased himself out of bed and padded out of the bedroom. In the shower, John took matters into his own hands with harsh efficiency. He felt ashamed, even filthy, as he wanked, not that there was anything inherently wrong with homosexual attraction, of course not, but surely Sherlock- and here he bit his lip, stifling his low groans under the spray.

He was already in the kitchen contemplating the interior of the tea cupboard when he realized that he had forgotten his cane upstairs. His thigh promptly indulged in a decided twinge, and John frowned down at it. “It’s all in your head,” he told himself sternly, keeping his voice low. It didn’t help. He hobbled back upstairs for his cane, cursing under his breath.

He could have prepared breakfast for both of them and coaxed Sherlock into eating his share, but he wasn’t quite ready to drag their conversation into the daylight. Instead, he made himself tea and toast (which tasted like tar and sawdust) and washed the dishes as quietly as he could. He needn’t have worried; Sherlock still hadn’t moved by the time John had himself fully dressed and shod.

Perhaps he was shamming, equally eager to avoid discussion of what had happened during the night, but John didn’t think so.

It was still early enough for him to walk to the clinic, which he would force himself to do in defiance of his limp. Fair weather was predicted, so he took his lighter coat and left his scarf hanging on its hook. He nearly stumbled over Sherlock’s favourite coat and shoes in a sodden heap by the door; after brief consideration, he brushed them off, hung up the coat, and set the shoes to one side to air.

Once in the clinic, John kept an eye on his phone, but Sherlock didn’t attempt to contact him until after lunch, and even then the text only read. _“We’re out of milk. SH.”_ John felt the corner of his mouth quirk up.

 _“I’ll pick some up on my way,”_ he responded promptly. Then he recalled the nearly empty fridge. _“Want me to bring home a Chinese?”_

" _Don't forget the egg flower soup. SH_." And then, a few seconds later: “ _Unless it's from the place with the uneven windows. SH.”_

 _“That place closed while you were gone,”_ John replied. He’d almost written _dead_ , only half-teasing, then decided that this would surely redirect the conversation to topics better left untouched.

They texted back and forth over the course of the afternoon, neither of them making any reference to the previous night, much to John’s surprise. He’d fully expected Sherlock to bombard him with questions about, well, everything: the kisses, the close contact, the current and likely future state of John’s emotions, the probability of anything along similar lines occurring again if they both stayed in 221B.

 _You know my methods, John. Apply them._ He knew well how Sherlock’s mind worked, at least concerning matters such as this. If he wasn’t asking, it was because he didn’t think that the answers made any difference, and that could only be because…

John’s logical train of thought stuttered abruptly to a halt. A slow, disbelieving smile stretched his lips.

That could only be because, despite everything that had happened, Sherlock believed their relationship to be fundamentally unchanged.

And John trusted that this, too, would turn out to be true.

***

Sherlock texted John just as he was leaving the clinic: “ _How long?_ _Bored. SH.”_ Standing at the counter of Peking Garden, John felt his hip vibrate with another text: “ _Get the dumplings too. SH.”_ It was remarkable, John reflected as he fished in his wallet for loose change, how straightforward it was for him to interpret Sherlock-speak. _I miss you. I want you to take care of me._

A few raindrops had just begun peppering the sidewalk when John reached their front door. Normally he would have paused to take off his coat, but his hands were full, and besides, he was as eager to see Sherlock now as he had been to avoid him that morning. And Sherlock evidently shared that sentiment, since he met John at the door, his face breaking into a broad grin. He took the bags and led John into the kitchen, an unmistakable bounce in his stride.

John flicked on the lights, noting that Sherlock had been borrowing his laptop again. "Have you really been sitting in the dark all day?" he asked, not bothering to suppress a fond smile.

Sherlock set the bags down on the table and turned round. “I-“ he said, and broke off at the expression on John’s face, and beamed back at him, his severe features softened so that John suddenly glimpsed the small boy that he must once have been.

“Come here,” John offered, opening his arms, and Sherlock stepped forward and enfolded him, burying his nose in John’s neck. John pulled him close, flesh warm and pliable and alive under his silk shirt, collarbone sharp against John’s forehead. He could hear Sherlock’s heart beating hard, felt his breath hitch.

Then, almost in unison, their stomachs growled, and John laughed and pushed Sherlock lightly away. “Food first,” he said. “Doctor’s orders; you’re looking peaky.”

Sherlock put on a pout, although he was positively glowing with secret delight for some reason. “I drank some milk today.”

“And that was after how many days of-“ John broke off and shook his head. “Never mind. Hand us a couple of plates, love.”

And as he watched Sherlock select some utensils, his breathing still erratic and spots of colour high on his cheeks, John suddenly realized that he’d left his cane back in the clinic.

 

THE END.


End file.
